


Burnt Roses: Valentine's and Ash Wednesday, Feb. 14, 2018

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, VERY mildly dub con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 17:27:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13641012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: Soft, quiet, broody, as seems fit for a day that (this year) combines the beginning of lent and the holiday of love.





	Burnt Roses: Valentine's and Ash Wednesday, Feb. 14, 2018

Even the Diogenes acknowledged St. Valentine’s Day, Greg thought, as he slipped into the silent sanctuary in the early evening of the 14th of February. Of course, it acknowledged it _quietly…_ but the usual vase of flowers at the maître d’s station wasn’t filled with palest pink tulips and narcissi for no reason whatsoever, nor was the sign offering members “emergency holiday services—flowers and chocolates obtained through midnight” any accident. He smiled, amused. Of all the people in London likely to forget Valentine's and need some emergency last-minute help, the members of the Diogenes ranked high statistical odds…to the extent that any of them indulged in romantic hijinks in the first place. Many, like Mycroft Holmes, Greg would expect were unpartnered by design and intention, and could ignore all the ruckus.

Having reached a similarly singular state himself some years back, after his divorce, Greg regarded the new ease of Valentine’s with mixed feelings. There was relief, and amusement watching lesser mortals scuttle around trying to enact sufficiently operatic Romantic Drama to satisfy mates longing for a bit of appreciation. But there was also a softly melancholy sense of life passing. He was no longer young. No longer a bit of a lad out trying to pull. No longer a married man with a wife who wanted to know she was loved, in spite of all evidence that she was forgotten the minute her husband walked out the door to go to work. All that was “then.”

Now? “Now” was the winter of his discontent, he supposed. The shiver of winters still to come. The foreshadowing of lonely years ahead.

He signed in without a word, smiled at the maître d’, and headed toward the Stranger’s Room, where he knew Mycroft waited. The man was where he’d expected, seated in one of two large wing-chairs that sat in the bow window of the lounge, angled to look out over the busy street beyond. He was, in all respects, his normal self—dapper, neat, wearing a misty-grey tweed suit with the faint luminosity granted by microscopic flecks of color in the pale wool weave. His shoes—long, slim charcoal grey brogues—were clean and polished, his hands manicured perfectly, his hair combed and gelled with the valiant diligence of a man who’s grown resigned to pattern baldness, but not yet comfortable with it. Only one thing stood out—the dark smudge of ash in the middle of the high forehead.

He almost gave a startled “Oi, didn’t know you were religious.” Long years of discipline stopped him. He was a DI. He spoke with caution, even when it appeared he was spontaneous. Instead of commenting, he blinked once, then settled into the opposite chair.

“Forgot it was Ash Wednesday, too,” he said, opening the worn zip-up folio he’d used for paperwork outside the office for decades. These days it usually held his tablet, rather than the masses of forms and documents he’d once used it for—but it held his tablet perfectly well, and he felt in character bringing it with him. He removed a small SD card from an old Altoids box he kept in the folio, and handed it to Mycroft. “Week’s info from all my informants. Also projected activity for the month to come. Nothing expected until Easter. There’s a rumor there’s going to be a hit on St. Paul’s on Easter Sunday, though. Need to act on that fast. Otherwise, though, it’s a quiet week on my beat.”

Mycroft nodded, taking the card. He fished in his inside breast pocket and removed an elegant wallet. A few quick motions filed the little card away safe, and returned the wallet to its home.

“Have you any news on your missing informant? The former nanny you use to police Regents Park?”

Lestrade scowled. “News? Yes. Information—no. Not unless you want gossip about Sherlock and his household. Fuck me if I can trust Sherlock not to steal my best agents. She’s Rosie’s nanny, now.”

Mycroft’s brows rose. “Really? Mrs. Hartshorn?”

“You’ve met her?”

“I suffered a brief temptation to steal her from John and Sherlock. Even grown men can suffer a longing for perfectly poached eggs with buttered rusk soldiers, milky tea, and a comforting ‘there, there, little man’ on occasion.”

Lestrade, caught off guard, gave a sudden shout of laughter. “And a story read to you come bed-time?”

Mycroft considered. “Perhaps. ‘The Velveteen Rabbit,’ maybe? Or some of ‘Mary Poppins.’ I can’t pretend that wouldn’t be soothing after a hard day.” Something flickered in his eyes. “As it is, I spared the Baker Street Boys. Mrs. Hartshorn rules the nursery there, and I am forced to find my own solace in a weary world.”

Seeing an opportunity, and too curious not to ask, Lestrade gave a pointed glace to the smudged cross set slightly cockeyed over Mycroft’s ibis-beak of a nose. “Solace?”

Mycroft shrugged and smiled. “I am too modern to believe easily, but too much a man of tradition to find the old stories and the old rituals less than comforting. And I find the shape of the church year provides counterpoint and commentary when set in contrast with the more ordinary rhythms of secular life.”

“So—Ash Wednesday, but not St. Valentine’s?”

“Only ironically. A bit of research suggests Valentine’s fictitious—and only associated with romantic love to the degree he helped men get married to escape the draft of his time.”

“I can appreciate that, me—I’d rather be a lover than a fighter myself.” The words slipped out, and he gave a wry smile, thinking of his own single state. “Not that I’ve got much opportunity these days.”

“Don’t look so forlorn,” Mycroft clucked, scolding. “Any lack of pull you’re experiencing is all due to your own lack of effort, Detective Inspector.” He stretched in his chair, gestured to a nearby footman, and ordered whisky for both of them, having long since deduced that Lestrade considered the aged single-malt Mycroft preferred to be a rare and precious luxury. He smiled to himself when the drinks were brought, watching his associate take his first sip, murmur happily, and melt into the wing chair. “Technically that’s moonshine—unlicensed. But I’ve got an arrangement with the brewer, who sends me a few bottles every year.”

“Reason not to report him to the revenuers, if you ask me,” Greg murmured. He closed his eyes. “Some pleasures last, don’t they? I like my liquid pleasures. Pour ‘em in an oak cask, let ‘em sit a few decades, and you’ve got sunshine and hope to bottle off for eternity.” He opened his eyes again and glanced out the big bow window. “Dark already. Bloody winter. Dark and raining.”

“If winter comes can spring be far behind?”

“Don’t go quoting bloody poetry, Holmes.” He sighed. “Pale pink tulips and narcissus. Even the Diogenes does Valentine’s.”

Mycroft considered his moody companion.

“You appear to need a medicine for melancholy, Detective Inspector.”

“No. No more than this fine Scotch and…” he trailed off, unwilling to say that Mycroft’s presence was itself a comfort. Certainly better than heading home and picking up takeout on the way. “I’m growing old, Mr. Holmes. They asked me to show up for retirement planning the other day. Not pushing it, mind, and thank God or I’d be a right wreck. Just sensible-like, pointing out that another decade or so and it’s all over—light’s out, and off I toddle with a cheap watch and a modest pension. Some days I feel the age in my bones worse than others. Today sort of did that to me.”

Mycroft was always a bit in awe of the other man’s ability to express his feelings in such simple, open terms. He suspected Lestrade considered himself inarticulate and ill-prepared for emotional discussions, but in the years since Eurus’ revolt, Holmes had come to admire his….friend’s…capacity for emotional expression. Sometimes it was as simple as a hotly growled “bloody hell,” or a shouted “Oi, put that down!” But it always came straight and direct from the heart, easy to understand and hard to argue with.

“You’re not old,” he said, studying his buffed finger nails to avoid Lestrade’s eyes. “You have choices still.”

“Choices? Maybe. But the first choice has to be to go out and hunt ‘em up—and I’m lacking the oomph lately. Opportunity better come knocking, because if I have to go hunt it up it’s not happening.” Lestrade sipped again, sighing in a mix of contentment and weariness. “Hate to admit I look forward to these meetings these days. Used to think weekly debrief was a pain in the bloody arse, in spite of good company. Better things to be doing. Places to be going. These days I see the Diogenes jotted down on my daily calendar and I find myself whistling around the office, knowing I’ve got a few hours of comfort and conversation ahead of me.” He let his eyes crack open slightly, and grinned at Mycroft from under his lashes. “Bet you never expected a rough old copper would count you good company, did you?”

Mycroft cocked his head, considering “Frankly? No. I didn’t. But—I must say, the feeling is mutual.” He smiled, and Lestrade felt the rush of unexpected delight he felt every time Holmes offered him one of his rare, rare smiles. “We are perhaps peculiar bedfellows, but we get on well enough, don’t we?”

“Fair to middling, aye.”

Mycroft gave a firm nod. “Yes. Fair to middling…and I’d suggest more fair than middling, if it comes down to it.”

Lestrade grunted, and both men fell silent, sipping their drinks and enjoying the silent presence of a companion. After a time, Lestrade said, “RC or C of E?”

“Oh, C of E. I admit, I like a high church service, but I’m a happy heretic—I doubt I could stomach the Pope as anything more than a respected colleague in world affairs. He and the Dalai Lama are a boon to diplomatic efforts on occasion—but have very little to say to my spiritual life.”

“So. Smells and bells and midnight mass at Christmas. Sunrise ceremony at Easter?”

“I’m often at work, and if not—rest is so rare I avoid getting up for Easter morning service. Occasionally I attend a later service, as the music on Easter rivals that of Christmas.”

“M’ family were chapel. Methodists. Those who went in for that kind of thing. Never did, myself. Fewer and fewer do these days.”

Mycroft nodded, but said, “Still. It’s so…British. I feel anchored when I attend. I will never know if it has its roots in eternity—but it has its roots in history, and that’s enough.” He set the empty old fashioned glass on the table by the wing chair. He paused, opened his mouth on the verge of quotation, then stopped himself. “No. I’ll be good. For all it’s a ‘Little Gidding’ evening, in the midst of a ‘Little Gidding’ season, I will not quote Eliot. It’s an indulgence you should not have to endure.”

Lestrade, opposite him, chuckled, then intoned, “England is now—and history.”

Mycroft gave a small, startled squall. “Good heavens, Lestrade!”

“I’m not illiterate, Holmes.”

Mycroft found himself chuckling, and was delighted to see Lestrade’s face light, too, joining his amusement. “No. No—you just let people think you are, don’t you?”

“Oi—I’m a simple man wi’ simple tastes, me.” Lestrade tapped his nose and gave a sly, old-man’s chortle. “Gotta watch out for the silver fox, yeah? Clever, me.”

Mycroft couldn’t resist his own amusement. Rising, he said, “There’s only one thing to say, then—run, you clever boy! Come on. Up-up. Let’s go find a restaurant and pretend we’re young after all, and that it’s not midwinter, and the season of ash and regrets.”

Greg rose, but shook his head even as he gathered up his overcoat and folio. “Valentine’s, ye’ dafty. Won’t be a place in London not booked solid.”

“Then we shall do takeout, and…” Mycroft trailed off, searching for activities for two middle-aged men on a Valentine’s evening. “And go to mine,” he added, a bit lamely. “Music. Movies. Books. Old radio shows. There must me something in my collections that would suit.”

“More of the good Scotch?”

“Of course.”

Greg nodded, finding himself unexpectedly willing. “Why not? I can’t say I’ve spent an evening listening to music with a friend, or just watching a movie in…” He ran out of words, unwilling to work out whether it was years, a decade, or several decades. He remembered his boyhood—going to a friend’s place and lying on the floor, listening to the Clash, or Coltrane, or watching a movie on the VCR. Sometimes he was a bit of a lad and spent his time out and about—playing football, or on the pull at the local, or tuning his motorcycle engine up. But as often as not he and his friends would share a room together, listening to music or swapping books. When had adults decided that was not a fit way for a grownup to spend time? Sudden it sounded heavenly.

The very thought seemed to cheer both of them. They stood taller and grinned at each other, then sloped jauntily out of the Diogenes, swapping ideas of possible meals back and forth.

“Vindaloo?”

“Not tonight—my stomach has been off. I think I’d pop an ulcer if I went that hot. Oi, what about fried chicken?”

“Get thee behind me, acid reflux.”

“Gruel?”

“Please, sir, can I have some more?”

Greg laughed as Mycroft made mock-orphan eyes, cupping his hands. “No, really. Watcha want?”

“Perhaps…Hmph. Why is there never a good take-away salad shop?”

“'Cause normal people out for takeaway are looking for meat and starch and spice, eh? What about we hit a shawarma place? They usually have chopped salad to go on top, if nothing else.”

They ended up with gyros, salads with lemon wedges to squeeze over, hummus and pita. Mycroft threatened to call his chauffeur, but Lestrade chivied him into walking. They meandered down Pall Mall, took the lift up to Mycroft’s, and headed for the kitchen, where they proceeded to pop open bottles of ale from the fridge and ate at the counter.

“I never do this,” Mycroft said, words muffled by bread and tomato and cucumber and sliced meat. “Why do I never do this?”

Greg considered telling the other man he never ate gyros at his kitchen counter because he never took Greg Lestrade home with him. The thought sat uneasy in Greg’s mind, matched by a partnered question with the same answer: Why am I always so lonely come evening? Because Mycroft Holmes never drags me out of the Diogenes to get pick-up and eat at his place.

The smudge of ash kept drawing his eye…

“You say confession?”

“Only the communal recognition of sin in the middle of the service. Haven’t you ever…” he trailed off. “No. Your people were chapel Methodists, but not you.”

“Not any of my close family. What’s ‘recognition’?”

“Middle of the service, before mass. ‘Most merciful God, we confess we have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed; by what we have done, and what we have left undone. We have not loved you with our whole hearts. We have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.’”

“Got that down pat for a doubter, don’t you?”

Mycroft gave him the hairy eyeball, and said, “Eidetic memory—or close to it. Your point?”

“No point. Just—yeah. Ok. Covers about everything without actually admitting anything publically. Sounds like me and my ex.” He shuddered, suddenly haunted by gloom again. “Yeah. Too damned close. I need new words in my brain, now. If that’s still going around my head at three in the morning, I’m going to be suicide-bait. ‘Have not loved you with my whole heart.’ Ugh. I need another beer.”

Mycroft, eyes worried, collected two more ales and popped them open, handing Greg one. “I find it freeing. So unspecific while covering the main categories of fuck-up.”

Greg started to laugh, nearly spewing beer—just barely choking it down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Fuck-up? Mycroft Holmes says ‘fuck-up’?”

Mycroft lifted his chin and mimed affront, though his eyes laughed. “Only when appropriate. It is entirely appropriate while eating at the kitchen counter and discussing your past marriage.”

“True-that,” Greg admitted. “Here—let’s finish up, get some of your good Scotch, and…”

“What?”

“Not in a mood for a movie.  Music?”

Mycroft hmmmed under his breath. “You pick CDs out of my collection? We should both be happy that way.”

It was agreed.

“Books?”

“Too tired to focus. Just lemme close my eyes and listen.”

“And when you start snoring, Detective Inspector?”

“Toss a throw over me, and go on to bed. I’m fine.” And never mind that he was inviting himself over to Mycroft’s for the night. Now he was here, with Coltrane playing on the sound system, and a glass of good Scotch, and Mycroft down the sofa from him, legs stretched out long and lanky, he didn’t want to go back to his empty flat.

He slept.

He woke to find Mycroft slept, too. The sound system crooned out “A Love Supreme.”

“Oi, Holmes. You’re going to get a crick. Come on. No point in you sleeping on the sofa—‘t's your house. You got a bed. Come on. Here—it’s after midnight. Lemme wipe that ash off.” He walked the other man into the kitchen, dampened a paper towel, and wiped off the Ash Wednesday cross. Mycroft blinked and batted absently at him. “Na-na. Clean face before bed.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hartshorn.”

“Watch it. I’ll read you ‘The Velveteen Rabbit.’”

“Or ‘The Little Engine that Could.’”

“Or ‘The Cat in the Hat.’”

By the time he’d walked Mycroft to the bedroom, they were both getting silly, quoting chunks of “Green Eggs and Ham.”

It allowed them to ignore the obvious...until it struck like lightening, and Greg held Mycroft in his arms. Then they both went mad; mouths hungry, devouring each other in the midnight-black bedroom, lit only by a faint trace of light coming up the hall from the entryway.

A thousand things he should say as he drew back crossed Greg’s mind. He said none, and he didn’t draw away. He felt Mycroft hesitate, start to pull back—then surge forward, when Greg’s fingers gripped his arms tighter, pulling him closer.

Wordless, they undressed each other. Wordless, they murmured into each other’s hair, stroked each other’s shoulders. Wordless, they slid into bed, thighs weaving together. Wordless, they rode each other, longing and loneliness their shared language.

Pink tulips, Greg thought. Pink tulips and narcissi in the Diogenes, and silence.

They brought each other off…then, still silent, cleaned each other off, tender hands trailing warm, wet flannels up sticky flanks and thighs. They changed the sheets.

“Stay,” Mycroft managed, finally, though he was fairly sure Greg had been going to.

Greg nodded, and they lay side by side in the clean, cool sheets. Their hands found each other. Moments later they turned toward each other, each a sunflower with its own mortal, human sun. They nuzzled together, held each other, murmured.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Greg managed.

“It’s not Valentine’s anymore.”

“Happy Day-After Valentine’s.”

“You, too. Can we do this again tomorrow?” Mycroft felt bold asking, but he knew with driving certainty that he wanted this—the companionship and comfort of the entire evening, again and again, with this…friend.

“Yeah. I don’t know…”

“What?” Mycroft felt sudden fear that excuses would come out, now—objections.

“Why didn’t we do it before?”

Mycroft said, softly, “I don’t know about you. I never dared hope. I know better than to ask for what I won’t be given.”

Greg grunted, and cuddled closer. “Huh. Yeah. Ok. Isn’t it good we were both wrong?”

Mycroft stroked the strong back, touching the contours of spine and ribs and muscles. “Yes. Isn’t it good some decisions can be made without words?”

“How very out of sync we are. Consent is a thing, Mr. Holmes.” There was laughter in Greg’s voice, though.

“Did you consent?”

“Yes.” He kissed Mycroft’s forehead, where the ash had been. “Happy Easter, Mycroft.”

Mycroft almost argued…then smiled. Resurrection was when you could get it. “Happy Easter, Greg.”

They slept the night through, and rose content. It was the first day of the rest of their lives.


End file.
